One day you won’t need to write about her anymore. Or talk about what went wrong.
One day you won’t need to share your pain anymore. It will be small, manageable. And that song on the radio? It won’t make you cry.
One day, you won’t smell her shirt anymore. The scent was almost gone anyway. And it was such a strange, angry act when she shoved that shirt back at you, reeking of her perfume, after it was all over. Like the most hostile kiss ever. One day you will toss that shirt in the dumpster.
One day you will see the good in a brutal ending.
That day is today.
Life heals. You loved, you lost, you lived. This club is large: there are many members, with many the same scars as you. Toll the bell, and move on. Your best love is still ahead of you.
“Love is or it ain’t. Thin love ain’t love at all.“ — Toni Morrison, Beloved
“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still.“ — F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night